


Fantine's Before

by carmellax



Series: Damn These Vampires [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, F/F, aka the lesbian vampire slayers au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-17
Updated: 2013-10-17
Packaged: 2017-12-29 16:54:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1007810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carmellax/pseuds/carmellax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fantine's first vampiric encounter</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantine's Before

**Author's Note:**

> some very cute people asked for some more of this, and so more of this has been written

In the milky hours of the morning, when Fantine would lie awake, staring at the gradient of brightness that crept its way up the hotel room’s wall, she’d often remember her life from before. Before what, she was never quite sure, but somehow in her brain the memories of that time would be tinged in sepia tones, like an old photograph, and they were distinctly labelled ‘before’. Before she’d met Simplice and Madeline, maybe. Before Cosette. Before all the fucking vampires.

Fantine would roll onto her side and watch Simplice, sleeping peacefully, with one bistre hand stretched out towards her. Fantine would take that hand in her own, feeling its warmth against the cool air. Sometimes she’d also stroke the silver locket that rested against her chest – the locket which held a curl of blonde hair: the only souvenir of her daughter – and she’d wonder, if she could go back to that time, would she warn herself away?

If Fantine close her eyes, she could see herself clearly – 21 years old; fresh out of university; clutching a degree certificate in photography in one hand, and a dream of the sparkling future in her heart. She arrived in Paris as a young woman, barely more than a girl, with a suitcase of clothes, a Nikon around her neck, pink sunburn on her shoulders, and Britney Spears hair. Stepping onto the platform at Gare de Lyon with tentative, Converse-clad feet, she had breathed in the city air. The sky had been corn-flower blue, and she’d looked up at it, and felt like she could be anybody.

There had been an apartment, later on; a single room with a bed and a basin that was still too expensive. She’d decorated it with hanging beads and hand-dyed cloths, covered the walls with Blu-Tacked photographs, and bought an old lamp from a charity shop. It had been home.

The very next day, Fantine had got straight to work. Work, at that time, hadn’t meant thrusting stakes through the hearts of Satan’s children. It had been much less exciting. She’d taken photographs: Notre Dame, the Seine, the Eiffel Tower – everything clichéd and trite that Paris had to offer, but she’d been naïve back then, and believed in fortune. One day, someone would notice her talents, and then she’d be famous and wealthy, and maybe her parents would stop accusing her of taking a cop-out degree. The future was in her hands, and it was slowly growing clearer, like a Polaroid picture.

Nobody noticed her that day, but someone _did_ notice her that night. And that’s where it all went to shit.

His name had been Félix Tholomyès, and Fantine met him on the Champs-Élysées. She’d been trying to snap a photo of all the lights, and then he’d appeared beside her. He’d been charming and funny, and there was something almost antiquated about him, as if he’d been born in another era. It wasn’t ‘til later that Fantine would learn that actually, yes, he had.

Félix had bought her a drink, and things had moved on from there. It had been a whirl-wind, summertime romance, and Fantine had felt bliss for the first ever time. Her heart had bubbled with love for that man. Then, after a month, Félix decided that he’d had his fun.

Looking back on it now, she felt nothing but disgust. Disgust at the bastard’s lies. Disgust at herself for having believed him.

It had started as a normal date – they’d met at a restaurant, eaten, drank, held hands; he’d complimented her hairstyle, and she’d fed him dessert; and then they’d returned to his apartment, just like always. It had become apparent, however, that something was amiss when they reached his bedroom.

At first, Fantine had thought that it must be a kinky thing, or maybe a twisted joke, because why would someone fill their bedroom with so many candles? Why would someone scrawl red-chalk sigils on their hardwood floor? Why would– Oh God, were those _human_ skulls?

She’d taken a step back, but Félix was behind her, blocking the way. And when she had turned to face him, he hadn’t been Félix any more. His eyes had melted into dancing flames; his mouth had ripped into a scarlet gash; his fingernails had become claws. She’d screamed.

Fantine never knew what it was that had made her lunge for the wooden stool that stood in the corner. Perhaps it had just been an instinct to find something heavy. Or perhaps she’d been right to believe in fortune. Either way, she had grabbed it, and held it up, legs outwards, in a pitiful attempt at defence.

At the same time, Félix had leapt at her.

_Crunch_.

It had been an awful way to learn the wooden-stake-to-the-heart rule. Sometimes she still had nightmares about it.

Fantine had left Paris a week later, discarding her camera and her suitcase and her lamp in an attempt to escape it all. But she couldn’t escape the new knowledge that weighed on her mind. And she couldn’t escape the cluster of cells, tiny, but growing larger by the day, that was nestled in her womb.

On those sleepless nights, Fantine would think of her lost child, her girlfriend, her mentor. If she could change it all, would she? No. She’d much rather punch some vampires.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading!


End file.
